“And if some hermit ere hath found,
And sought her simple sweets to taste,
With pois’nous thorns encompass’d round,
He mourn’d too late his witless haste.”
“Vain weed, the scented brier replied,
While my perfumes enrich the air,
And bless the dale on every side,
Wilt thou, indeed, with me compare?
“And shall thy boasted tints that glare
A moment on the astonish’d sight,